Say Something
Shortly after winning a gold medal at the 1992 Olympic Games, opportunities quickly arose to travel and share my athletic experiences with audiences across the United States. As our sport is situated on rivers far away from spectators and media, whitewater canoeing athletes are not groomed for big stages and delivering motivational talks.
Yet, my speaking programs took me to diverse destinations such as a conference of medical office managers at Disney World, a farm equipment show in Iowa, and sharing the stage with baseball legend, Joe DiMaggio, at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. In February of 1993, just a few weeks after President Clinton’s inauguration, I spoke at the Downtown Rotary Club of Little Rock, Arkansas where I followed previous keynote speakers, Vice President Gore and Vice President Quayle, in consecutive weeks.
The Olympic story-telling tour kept me on the road for the better part of a year. But, in the process of taking our little-known sport into auditoriums and banquet halls, I started to lose touch with the essence of canoeing.
In between speeches, I would return to my parents’ home in Bethesda, Maryland. During these short breaks, I would tie down my canoe on top of the car, drive five miles to the Potomac River, and join athletes and coaches for training sessions.
Once on the river, the same river in which I had just been sharing stories from the stage about highly competitive training sessions, I struggled to connect with the water and fellow athletes.
A new coach had arrived from Europe and joined the U.S. national canoeing program. He built an exciting atmosphere for the athletes in which they focused, pushed, and dug deep. They were all in.
Before I could find my rhythm on the water, I was off to the next city to talk about… finding rhythm on the water.
Each time I returned to Bethesda, I was one more step further removed.
After several months on the speaking circuit, I asked the new coach for a meeting. He accepted and invited me to his home.
“I want to paddle and work together, but I just don’t feel like I belong here,” I say to the coach. “I cannot maintain the volume nor intensity of the schedule that the others are doing.”
“You just have to say something,” the coach says.
Long pause.
I synthesize these words, “to say something.”
Another pause.
I realize “to say something” is not for the coach’s benefit. It is for mine.
I need “to say something” out loud. To someone who is listening.
Only then does transition begin — from problem to solution.
“How many sessions can you do each week?” the coach asks.
“Probably four or five sessions in the boat per week,” I reply.
The coach applies a simple ratio of three different training intensities to the amount of sessions that I believe I can do. Within minutes, a plan appears.
Not a plan to reach the podium, but a plan to reduce resistance. A plan to not stop.
A plan that is built on the sound of my own true voice.
With gratitude,
-Joe
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